


Get Busy Living or Get Busy Dying

by LyricalKris



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-15 08:49:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/847603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyricalKris/pseuds/LyricalKris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is dying. He's died before. He's died a lot. But he's never been through the process of dying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get Busy Living or Get Busy Dying

**Author's Note:**

> Ack. So I promised myself I would never write Destiel. I specifically promised I would never write CANON Destiel. Gah. Cas started talking to me and wouldn't stop. Rawr.

Castiel is dying.

For as many times as he’s died, Castiel has never experienced his death, has never gone through the process of dying. Raphael and Lucifer obliterated him with a snap of their fingers. The Leviathan snuffed out his consciousness after a brief internal battle.

This is different.

He’s been shot before, stabbed by an angel blade, which was stronger than any man made weapon. He’d withstood the torture of heaven which was, ironically, second only to the torture of hell.

This is different.

“Cas! Dammit.”

It strikes Castiel as funny. Dean was the first one who’d stabbed him, at least in this particular body. It didn’t hurt then. He remembers being vaguely perplexed at Dean’s reaction. He shot first, then asked who Castiel was. He thanked him and then stabbed him. 

Castiel still remembers the wide-eyed look on Dean’s face when he didn’t react at all to the knife sticking out of his chest. Human weapons can’t hurt angels.

Oh, but they can hurt humans. How they can hurt.

“Cas. Fuck. Cas!”

Dean falls down on his knees beside him.

“I sh-shot the thing.” He gestures at the creature that attacked him, dead with a silver bullet to its heart. He’s proud of his aim.

Dean had taught him to shoot in those first days after he fell. Castiel has the strange urge to see the pride on his face before he dies, but it seems he won’t get his wish. Dean’s face is anything but proud.

Worried. Horrified.

Scared.

“Move your hands. Dammit, move your hands.”

“It’s too late, Dean.”

“Move your hands!” he snarls, and Castiel obeys with a sigh that turns into a wet cough.There’s blood in his throat, in his mouth, on his tongue which means there’s blood in his lungs. He doesn’t have long. They both know it. He can see it in Dean’s eyes as he looks at the wounds. The one at his chest, dangerously near his heart, must have nicked his lungs. 

It’s the one at his gut that hurts worse than anything Castiel has experienced.Really, it’s not so much the pain as it is the way his body, his frail human body, is reacting. Before when he was injured, his body was resilient, his essence glowing warm. There was pain, even weakness, but always permanence. His body would heal. It was just a matter of time, maybe a little rest, and then it would be as if it never happened. 

This pain is draining. He can feel his life force fading, feel the way his energy is seeping from his muscles, the marrow of his bones. Consciousness blurs around the edges, and the urge to close his eyes is almost more than he can bear.

“Hey,” Dean says sharply. “Stay with me, Cas. Don’t go to sleep.” His mouth is set in a thin line as he looks over the wound. “Fuck.”

“I told you.” Castiel’s voice sounds resigned and weak to his own ears.

“Don’t you start that.” Dean’s voice is harsh. “This is gonna hurt, but I need you to stay with me.”

Castiel is having trouble processing what Dean’s doing. He’s putting an arm around him, hooking the other up under his legs. He grunts as he lifts Cas up into his arms. Before he can tell him not to bother, Cas’s words are robbed by the blinding pain that wracks his body. He cries out, grabbing fistsfulls of Dean’s shirt as he tries to stifle his agony.

Being this weak is beyond frustrating for him. He realizes his priorities are probably out of order. He’s less concerned about the fact he’s dying as he is about the burden he is to Dean. Again. 

It’s been his concern for some weeks now. Metatron left him on Earth with nothing - no identity, no money, no resources. Destitute and totally unprepared to be human, Dean and Sam were his salvation. The brothers had so much else on their plate. Sam was sick, Crowley was in their charge, and the sky had fallen. As if they had the time or energy to teach him how to be human.

And now, after Castiel had insisted he was ready to help, ready to hunt, Dean’s worry is proven right.

He did fine the first three cases, but this, the fourth, seems like it will be his last. Not a very impressive showing for a former angel of the lord. 

To think he was a soldier for millennia before being felled by a monster he could have smote with a snap of his fingers only some short months ago. Dean had taught him an old human saying: the bigger they are, the harder they fall.

Once upon a time, he’d been as big as the Chrysler Building.

“Cas. Open your eyes.” Dean struggles to get the door to the Impala open. “Open your eyes. Quit being so damn dramatic. You’re going to be fine.”

Grunting, Cas does manage to wrest his eyes open. “It’s a peculiar human custom. Are you lying to make you feel better or me?” he mumbles.

Dean is hovering over him as he settles him into the backseat. “Keep it up, smart ass.”

Concentrating on the lines of Dean’s face, trying to focus his blurring vision, Castiel belatedly realizes he’s forgotten something he used to find very obvious. In all his years watching humans, he would watch them take what they had for granted. At the time, he didn’t understand. Most humans had so much and yet they chose to concentrate on what they didn’t only to realize in their dying moments, when it was too late, the things they hadn’t appreciated. It was most every human’s dying wish - one more minute, hell, one more second of something or someone that had been right in front of them all along. 

It takes all his strength to lift his hand. He traces his trembling fingers down Dean’s cheek. “Dean,” he struggles to speak. “I’m sorry.”

For a second, a heartbeat, Dean freezes. The pain in his stare is almost more than Cas can bear, but then his expression hardens. Cas can see the spark of anger in his eyes. “You know what? I don’t forgive you. If you die on me now, like this, I won’t forgive you, so you better get it through your head that you’re going to survive this.” He takes Cas’s hand and presses it down on the wound at his gut. Hard. Hard enough that Cas can’t quite swallow the scream of anguish. “I know. I know it hurts, but keep your hand on it. Press hard. You understand?” he demands.

Cas can only nod. He understands, for what little good it will do them. Dean always did fight the losing battles.

There are so many things Cas wants to say, so many things he’s stored up over these last months or maybe it’s been years. Dean has commented more than once that Cas has been quieter even than usual. It’s this confusing tangle of human emotions. He’s unused to the way they hit him all at once and he has yet to identify the wide range of emotions he is capable of.

Sometimes, he thinks he wants things from Dean he doesn’t know how to explain. Sometimes, he thinks Dean looks at him like he wants the same thing.

Now, Cas wishes he’d asked or wishes he’d acted.But it’s too late. His life is draining out of him with every beat of his heart, and Dean has gotten into the front seat. When Cas tries to find the will to speak, Dean hushes him. “Save your strength. Be quiet. Keep your eyes open. Cas. Stay with me. Cas!” He says it over and over again as he drives far too fast.

Cas tries to obey, and it works for a while until it doesn’t, until his eyelids get too heavy and droop and close.

“Cas!” Dean’s frantic, pleading, pissed-as-hell voice is the last thing Castiel hears before the darkness takes him.  
~0~  
When he was grappling with his new found humanity, Cas had pondered a great many things. His mortal body was a ticking time-bomb. It was fragile. It ached when he used it too much. When Dean taught him how to shoot, afterward his arms ached for days.

This body needs tending. It needs sleep and sustenance, cleaning and grooming.

The knowledge that regardless of how good he took care of it, his body would wither and break perturbed him. The human body was a wonder - so many tiny parts that all had their job to do to keep humans alive.

So many tiny parts that could break down. 

For the first time in his existence, Cas was forced to contemplate a finite timeline. He’d wondered aloud to Dean once that when he died, if, as humans often claimed was the case, his life passed before his eyes, would that include only his time as a mortal or all the millennia before?

“Better hope it includes the whole spiel,” Dean had said. “That’d buy you some time in a sticky spot, eh?”

Dean wouldn’t say what he saw when he died, all the times he died. 

Before he died, Cas had just enough time to wonder what his heaven would look like. All his Earthly homes, the bunker, the Impala, the hotel rooms that all looked the same after a while, wouldn’t be a comfort to him without Dean there would they?

And Sam, of course. Sam is a good friend.

When consciousness returns to him, Cas is confused. He’s never experienced his own human heaven, but he can’t figure why his heaven is so noisy. Irritatingly noisy. There is a persistent beeping for one thing. He can’t explain that. 

The incredible pain isn’t as difficult to explain. Even if he is destined for heaven, as Metatron promised, he can trust his own psyche to continue his penance. Pain is something he deserves. 

Slowly, though, he becomes aware of more minor discomforts. His throat feels raw, the inside of his mouth riddled with tiny cuts. There’s a sore on his ass, two actually, that ache and itch terribly. His body is stiff. 

It takes some concentration, but he’s finally able to drag his eyes open. With his head tilted to the side, when his vision comes into focus, Dean is the first thing he sees. He’s asleep, his face somehow still tense. 

Castiel’s thoughts are muddled, but one thing is clear. He’s alive. Barely, judging by the way his body feels like it’s been put through a meat grinder, but alive nonetheless. 

Vaguely, he recalls the disgust on Naomi’s face when she sneered that he didn’t even know how to die right. That, at least, seems like it hasn’t changed, and Cas finds he is grateful.

His eyes sweep again over Dean’s form.

So, so grateful.

Human life is precious; he’s always believed this. It occurs to him with a start that his life is precious. It is, for him, a profound thought. Perhaps as an angel he was powerful but he’s never been precious. The consequence of a finite timeline, he supposes.

He remembers his regrets in the moments before his ‘death’. His heart begins to pound, his stomach twisting in a way that has nothing to do with his physical maladies. It takes him a few minutes to recognize nervousness.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he remembers this scene being reversed. Once upon a time, he sat by Dean’s bedside while he recovered from Alistair’s beating. He remembers how conflicted he was. The wool had been ripped from his eyes, and his brother had tried to kill him. Yet when Dean woke up, all of that paled to having to tell a poor human boy he was meant to stop the devil.

He remembers how Dean, tough as nails and full of testosterone Dean, let his guard down in front of him. He remembers how it struck him. This boy, this man, was so broken and vulnerable in front of him. Him, the dick angel who’d only brought him the weight of the world to bear. 

So much they’d been through, together and apart, since then.

It’s only a few minutes more before Dean blinks and shifts. His eyes register pain - sitting in that chair cannot be comfortable - and confusion before realization hits. His eyes dart over, and he’s clearly startled when he sees Castiel watching him.

“Sonova bitch,” he says wryly, his voice scratchy. His expression is bemused. “For the record, watching me while I sleep is still creepy, Cas. I thought you were done with that now that you need sleep, too.”

Cas swallows, opening his mouth to retort, but he finds his throat is too dry. He coughs instead, and it sends a spasm of pain through his body that makes him groan.

Dean is on his feet in an instant. “Take it easy.” His hands flutter, like he doesn’t know what to do, before finally settling on Cas’s arm.

It takes a minute or so but Cas’s coughing fit subsides, and he leans back against the pillow, exhausted from the ordeal. When he opens his eyes, Dean’s look is soft. “You don’t do things halfway, do you, Cas? Three times out and you don’t get so much as a scratch, but then you try to get your stomach carved out."

"I'm in advanced placement," Castiel borrows a phrase from Kevin Tran. His voice is a barely there rasp. 

He's rewarded with a grin and a chuckle. Dean shakes his head. "You're gonna be okay. You lost way too much blood and they had to patch up your insides, but you'll live."

"I'm relieved."

Dean smiles. "Yeah, me too."

Cas closes his eye briefly, his muddy thoughts rolling around in his head. This is irritating, too. On his best day, his mind isn’t what it used to be. Angels’ minds were sharp, capable of many lines of thought at a time, and that wasn’t counting the different levels of perception.

“It was the highlights,” he mumbles.

Dean looks confused. “What?”

Cas has to swallow several times before he can speak again and his words are slurred when he does. “When I was dying and my life flashed before my eyes. It was the highlights,” he clarifies. “The stupid look on your face the first time you saw me. Neanderthal poetry. That night before we summoned Raphael. Discussing books with Sam.” He names a few more. Most of them include Dean. Their best moments. He’s smiling when he gets too tired to go on.

When he drags his eyes open, Dean’s are on him. There’s a peculiar look there, a darkness, but not in a bad way. There’s a spark of something there that resembles fear or uncertainty perhaps, but Cas has the distinct impression Dean has been struck by something he’s said.

There’s a coil deep in the pit of Cas’s stomach. It’s not uncomfortable, but it begs to be tended to. Dean makes him feel this. The look in his eyes right now makes him feel this. Castiel licks his lips, and Dean’s eyes dart down to watch.

He laughs, a nervous sound, and shakes his head. “Man, you’re high.”

Cas glances down at the floor and back up to Dean. “Not particularly.”

“No, I mean...” Dean rolls his eyes. “Never mind.”

Cas wants an explanation, but his eyes are drooping. Dean clears his throat and takes a step back, rubbing the back of his neck. “You should rest, dude. Sleep is the best medicine. Trust me on that one.”

A thought occurs to Cas then that makes his heart beat erratically. He’s on the right side of consciousness to be bold. “Dean,” he whispers in a barely there voice. 

“What?”

Cas beckons him closer. Dean steps up to the bed. He’s weak, but not as weak as he’s making himself out to be. He gestures again, and Dean leans down.

Summoning every bit of his energy, Cas surges forward. He ignores the sharp protest of his body as he fists his hands in Dean’s jacket, dragging him down. Then, he kisses Dean.

It’s a firm kiss. Castiel is a good kisser; he knows this.

Dean’s yelp of surprise is muffled. He raises his hand, and Cas is well aware he might hit him or push him. He understands that might be his reaction. But after a moment, Dean’s hand cups his cheek. He kisses back, and Cas feels rather than hears the little whimper Dean drowns against his mouth.

It only lasts perhaps eight seconds, maybe ten, and that’s all the energy Cas has. He falls back against the bed, his eyes closed and sleep too heavy to cast off. He can hear Dean’s staggered breathing somewhere close.

He knows they’ll have to deal with what he’s just done when he wakes again. He hasn’t got a clue what will happen, but it’s out there. It’s happened, and it cannot be taken back.

His life is precious, his time is precious, and he knows it felt good to do what he did.

Castiel is living.

**Author's Note:**

> SO MANY THANKS to jessypt and everydaybella. SO. Thoughts?


End file.
